Breaking the Jinx
by esocentric
Summary: It’s time for Hogwarts, the finest school of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the world, to reopen but the staff remains one member short. Follow everyone’s favourite wizard as he balances teaching, love and the demands of a world rebuilding itself. H/G


**Breaking the Jinx**

**Summary:** It's time for Hogwarts, the finest school of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the world to reopen, but the staff remains one member short. Follow everyone's favourite wizard as he balances teaching, love and the demands of a world rebuilding itself.

**A Prologue.**

**Castles and Cows**

It was late August, and Hogwarts Castle had never looked so beautiful. The glorious summer sun glinted on the pristine lake, the elegant windowed spires and towers beamed down over the silent grounds. It was, Minerva thought, difficult to tell that here, not a few months ago, the most violent and tragic battle of her life had taken place, stripping countless families of loved ones and leaving the once mighty castle little more than a crumbling wreck. The only clues of what had taken place lay in the white memorial, standing proudly in the grounds, the names on which she could list without hesitation: students she had taught, friends she had loved.

The stern headmistress wiped the tear tickling down her cheek from her face, a slightly sad smile working its way around her thin lips. The victory was bittersweet, but a remarkable victory it was. This was what they had been willing to fight for, to die for: that things could return to the peaceful tranquility that the castle now enjoyed.

Not for long, though. In but a week, the students would return. For once, she hoped they would bring with them all of the chaos, trouble making and energy that usually wore her down. She hoped that they would be allowed to grow up untroubled and carefree from now on.

Minerva had never planned on being headmistress. In truth, she had never envisioned a world without Albus Dumbledore and had never wanted to think about what might happen had her mentor and friend passed on. More than that, though, she had always been quite content to teach Transfiguration. Ever since her own school days, she had held a fascination for the subject and its many uses, the way in which there was always something more difficult to master, whether in terms of scale or complexity. Quite content to pass on her passion for the art, she had also managed to find time to submit papers to Transfiguration Today, to build on the many developments that Albus himself had made before he had graduated to grander affairs. She had always wanted to avoid shouldering further responsibilities, they had never suited her.

Yet, here she was: Headmistress. She knew it was her Gryffindor streak that had led to this. After Tom Riddle's death, the wizarding world might have been delivered from the terror, horror and violence that had plagued it for the past few years, but it was still in complete chaos. The infrastructure that held their magical society together had nearly fallen apart, to an extent not seen in Britain since the Founders' time. The desperate times called for experienced heads, people to set an example, to help with the reconstruction and to help their community find its footing. She knew, as well as many of the older and wiser, that this was something that they could not afford to make mistakes with: the social and political climate of the past were as much responsible for Voldemort's rise to power as the immortal dreams of a clever young wizard. Their duty, her duty was to make sure that it did not happen again.

So, she had stepped up to the challenge: the school had been rebuilt and it had been her who had overseen it. Hundreds of talented people had brought their expertise to assist: from the best of the Egyptian ward-smiths, experts in protective enchantments, to the finest stone masons from the warlock villages in the Andes. Voldemort, as well as those acting in his name, had killed so many: many were prepared to help. Now, in appearance the Castle was grander and more spectacular than ever before, along with many other areas of wizarding Britain: Diagon Alley, the Ministry. Unfortunately, though, the physical reconstruction was the easy part. Building back the community that was to live and work in these places was a job that had only just begun.

* * *

  
Harry paused for a moment, looking up at the narrow terraced house, so like all the others on this street, and sighed. This was his twelfth family visit today.

Harry had never really given much thought to what would happen after he had killed Voldemort: he had never really allowed himself to believe that he would survive the final battle and so had never planned for any future beyond. Now that the war was over, he still didn't feel like he could rest; there was so much to do.

In the first days after his final confrontation with Tom Riddle, Harry had felt that he had entered some warped version of reality. Every day he had experienced extremes of emotion: the initial relief and the jubilation at the victory contrasted with the unbearable sadness and despair at the loss of so many. The parties that lasted into the night had given way to funerals: Fred's, Colin Creevy's, Remus' and Tonks'. It had become so confusing, and mixed up, that he had felt a need to escape, to collect his thoughts.

Hermione, he remembered, had understood and had obviously spoken to McGonagall about it. He was grateful, then, when his old Transfiguration teacher had told him what she wanted him to do.

The last year had brought confusion and disorder to the way in which students were invited to Hogwarts: there were now hundreds of young, muggleborn children who knew nothing of the world of magic, who had been denied their place in the wizarding world by the pureblood bigotry that made Harry's blood boil. It made him shiver, to think of what might have happened had it been him, stuck at the Dursleys' and attending Stonewall High rather than enjoying his first year with Ron and Hermione. The least he could do now, he thought, was to help track down all of those who wanted to learn about magic, and invite them to the school. McGonagall had suggested it and he was happy to oblige.

The last two months had brought steady progress. He had visited countless Muggle homes, explaining patiently about the world of all things magical, and inviting many students to Hogwarts. Others had been doing the same, he knew, and the Ministry had set up a select group of employees to spread the word to those families that had fled abroad, or gone into hiding. Many of these, like Reg Cattermole (who Ron had found himself pretending to be when they raided the Ministry last year) and his family, had begun to come out of the woodwork, once it was clear that the Death Eaters were no longer in control, and the whole story of Voldemort's end wasn't some publicity stunt. The wizarding world seemed to be undergoing a renaissance, of sorts.

Still, there were plenty more homes to visit, and he was gradually running out of time. A week remained until the Hogwarts Express would depart and it was vital to Harry that he make sure that everyone was on board this time. He shook himself from his thoughts and gently pushed open the neat, white gate and walked up the pathway.

* * *

  
Molly Weasley was despairing. She had called Ginny down from her room to help her get the dinner prepared for that evening, eyeing it as the perfect opportunity to talk her youngest child into returning to Hogwarts for the following year. Unfortunately, things were not going to plan.

"Mum, we've had this discussion so many times before: I don't want to go back!"

"Ginny, dear, please. You need to finish your education and for goodness sake, it's only for another year," Molly implored her daughter.

"You're not making Ron go back, and he missed all of last year!" Ginny fumed.

"Yes, well, Ron has been accepted straight into Auror training. I'm wasn't happy about him missing out on his N.E.W.T.s, but he tells me that he, Hermione and Harry have arranged to take them before Christmas. I just hope they found some time to study over the past year. You, on the other hand, are not ready, Ginny." Ginny went quiet, but still looked mutinous. Molly thought she could tell what her youngest was thinking. "I'm sure Harry won't mind, dear, if you spoke to him about it." Ginny was not impressed with this.

"This has nothing to do with Harry," Ginny stormed, "Just mind your own business!" Molly watched Ginny march out of the kitchen up the stairs, and sighed. Clearly, 'Harry' was still a subject to be avoided at all costs, for the time being. Ginny had been unusually quiet for the last couple of months. At first, her mother had attributed it to Fred's death or the horrors of the Carrows' regime at Hogwarts. Over time, however, she had begun to suspect it was something more than this, especially given her rather strange behavior whenever Ron and Hermione were around. It seemed her youngest son had grown up and, somehow, it had completely passed her by. Molly couldn't be happier, though: she had, in the way that mothers can, always seen past the awkward, insecure exterior of her boy to his loyal and witty character. She was just glad that Hermione had too. Ginny, however, seemed not to enjoy the impromptu displays of affection between the two, although Molly couldn't understand why. She had cornered the two of them about it, and their response had been pretty unexpected.

"I think it's because of Harry", Hermione had said, sharing a look with Ron. "He was, well, going out with her at the end of last year and I think she misses him." Ron looked slightly confused, for a second, frowning at Hermione. Then he nodded.

"Yeah, I had a feeling it was something like that," he said. Hermione rolled her eyes, before glancing nervously back to Molly.

Initially she had been shocked: her daughter was far too young to be getting involved with boys! Then she mentally shook herself. This was rubbish; she had been Ginny's age when she had started going out with Arthur. Bill had married very young and she really couldn't see Ron and Hermione ending up with anyone else. It seemed, in the wizarding world, that people formed close relationships when they were so young. Perhaps it was a result of a society that seemed to have been constantly plagued by infighting and war for the past century, or perhaps it was because of the tight-knit closeness and insular nature of the magical community itself: almost all witches and wizards who went on to marry met each other at Hogwarts, given that it was the only real magical school in the country.

* * *

  
Ginny stomped up the stairs to her room, feeling completely confused. She desperately wanted to go back to Hogwarts, to return to school and enjoy her last year there. She had grown up hearing fantastic stories about the castle and, despite the less pleasant memories that plagued her dreams, she really wanted to return. There was a complication, though: Harry.

She felt slightly guilty about how she had treated him over the summer. Initially overjoyed at his victory, she had become distracted over the days that followed - it was hard to keep track of anything during that strangely surreal period, and Ginny could hardly remember anything that had happened. More than that, over the next week she had noticed him with his eyes pinned to her. He would always blush shyly and look away whenever she caught him staring, but Ginny couldn't help feel a sense of satisfaction that he was missing her company. Despite their all-to-brief time together at the end of the sixth year, Ginny had found that she couldn't really and hadn't really ever pictured a future without him: she had never grown out of her crush, it had just developed into something more. She didn't know what Harry's feeling were, but that he was at least missing her presence served him right, she had thought, this is what she had been forced to put up with all of last year.

Now, though, she was worried. Harry had been away for over a month, apparently helping with the reconstruction efforts. Ginny knew that Hermione knew what he was up to and where he had been staying, but when she had quizzed the older girl she hadn't found any answers and this made her more nervous. Had Harry found someone else? Would he still want to be with her when he returned, especially if she went back to Hogwarts, away from him, for the next year? Why couldn't things be easier for her? Ron, who she could tell had ignored his feelings for Hermione for years and, even when they had got together, kept making a mess of things, was lucky in love. Why not her?

Realising she had fallen in to a very out of character mood, she decided to head out to the orchard. Flying always took her mind of these things. She grabbed her broom, and headed down the stairs, feigning deafness at her mother's call to return to help in the kitchen.

* * *

  
Minerva had reached the 7th floor, to the office that she now held.

"Jock," she muttered to the gargoyle, which sprung aside. She made her way up to the office and, before long, found herself slumped into the fine straight backed chair at the desk. It wasn't a position she was accustomed to resting in, but she was completely exhausted, the last month had been hectic. There was still something that needed sorting, however, before term started. She had racked her brains, desperate to find a suitable Defence Against The Dark Arts teacher. No one had been forthcoming. There was a very narrow selection of people to chose from who had the necessary skill, teaching ability and trustworthiness. Some, like Remus Lupin, had been killed in the final battle. None of the Aurors, or even the ex-Aurors (many of whom had been called out of retirement to help the ministry in the last month or so) could be spared.

There was no choice. They were now a week away from the start of term and, while it wouldn't be the case that the Ministry would pick some ghastly if she couldn't choose, it might mean that the students ended up with someone like Gilderoy Lockhart. Minerva would rather teach the subject herself. Sighing, she reached over to the draw to her right and drew out a large, bushy feather quill, some ink and the fine Hogwarts headed parchment she had been writing to students on for years. There really was no one else. She dipped her quill into the ink pot, and began.

* * *

  
"So, what you're saying is that Magic exists?"

Harry was perched on the edge of the cheap, blue sofa in the sitting room of the Muggle house, trying to yet again explain about the wizarding world. It was at times like these that he wondered why they bothered with the International Statute of Secrecy at all. Scrapping it would solve a lot of problems, for him and for the Muggles.

"Yes," said Harry, absentmindedly cleaning his glasses on his shirt.

"And my daughter, my Joanna, has some magical ability?"

"Yes," Harry repeated, having a feeling he knew exactly where this line of questioning was going. "She was picked up by enchantments the moment she was born." The man glanced at his wife, and then locked eyes once more with Harry.

"And that you want to invite her to a school for witches and wizards?" he finished, staring at Harry with a bizarre expression on his face. It looked to Harry as if he was trying to swallow a cup of an uncomfortably hot drink, in one mouthful. Harry would have laughed but, as he hardly need remind himself, this had happened too many times in the last few weeks. How had McGonagall ever managed it? It had been her, after all, that had had the job of informing non magical students of the inner workings of their world. Harry himself had been a special case.

"It's not just any school, sir, it's the best in the world," he replied. "I'm sure she'll enjoy it there - I certainly did." The tall, rather intimidating man frowned down at him and Harry was reminded how young he must look to middle aged father, barely eighteen as he was.

"Preposterous," the man exclaimed. "I don't believe it. Prove it." Somehow, Harry wasn't at all surprised; he had been resigned to this pretty much as soon as he had shaken hands with the man. Pulling out his wand, he flicked it at the low coffee table in front of him, which expanded, turning into a cow. He grinned, cheekily. Spending his evenings for the last month brushing up on all of his rather neglected studies had been paying off, and had been pleased to find that he had little difficulty with advanced spells. It was as though his magic, once entirely focussed on defeating Tom Riddle, was now ready to show off in other areas. All four of the other people in the room, the man, his wife, the two children, jumped. While the adults seemed alarmed, the girl and her younger brother looked excited, and intrigued. The mugs that had been sitting on the table slid off the cow's back, spilling hot tea all over the carpet, which caused the young boy to giggle, cutting off at a look from his scandalised mother. Bugger, he thought, noticing a long crack in one of the mugs, what a stupid idea. He should have just stuck to casting a Patronus. Flicking his wand again, the table reappeared and the cups reformed. The children looked slightly disappointed.

"So," said Harry, choosing to adopt a business like tone, "Will you be letting your daughter attend?" There was a moment when he thought the man might ask for another demonstration, but it passed. He nodded his head, relenting, and Harry proceeded to explain about Diagon Alley, handing over the customary letter from the Deputy Headmaster along with a ticket for the Hogwarts Express. Once done, he made to show himself out, feeling exhausted.

"What about my carpet? It's covered in tea!" Groaning, Harry turned back, flicked his wand once more. A quick scouring charm and a mumbled apology later, he followed the girl, Joanna, to the front door, which she opened for him. He glanced down at the timid looking girl, noticing her brother peering shyly from outside the porchway. He was probably magical as well, Harry thought. Sometimes he just seemed to be able to tell. How many more had he seen like them - they might have lived their whole lives in complete ignorance of magic, were it for Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Shaking his head, he gave her a small smile and a wink, before Apparating away. A bit cheeky, he thought, as he materialised back at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, but sometimes he couldn't resist.

Glancing around, he noticed Kreacher come bounding towards him. The elf had been terribly enthusiastic over the summer - it seemed that the defeat of Voldemort had instilled a new passion for work and obedience into him. Harry wasn't even paying him, although he had made certain not to mention that to Hermione in any of his letters.

"Shoes off, Master Harry, I have dinner waiting for you. Master also received some post today from an owl today" said the elf, indicating the shelf by the door. Harry picked up the only letter sitting there, confused for a second. He had expected none of the fan mail or the dozens of requests for interviews he knew were being sent out to be able to reach him here, it was heavily enchanted, although he knew that some of the protections were no longer necessary. He tore the envelope open, recognising the familiar crest, and began to read.

_Dear Harry,_

I would like to offer you the position of Defence Against The Dark Arts Professor at Hogwarts. I know this will seem sudden and unexpected, Harry, but you must understand you are the only person I will now trust to teach the students. We always had difficulty filling the post before the war, now it is nearly impossible. I am sorry to offer you the position so soon after the summer but, I think, you may find that it solves more problems than you expect. Hopefully, I will not have to force you to for more than a year.

Please send me your reply as soon as possible. As you know, term starts very soon.

Minerva  
  
Harry stood, shocked. Him, a professor? It felt weird and, yet, given what had happened over the last year, he was surprised that anything could shock him anymore. Slightly lost in his thoughts, he kicked off his boots and stumbled through the restored house of Black to where Kreacher had laid out a portion Lancashire Hot Pot, sat down, and began to eat.

In truth, he hadn't really decided what he was going to do come September. He knew he didn't want to go back to Hogwarts as a student, and it seemed that Ron and Hermione shared this view. That said, he had firmly decided against being an Auror, at least for the time being: the life he had been leading for the past was exhilarating and addictive at times, but did he really want to still be chasing down every dangerous Pureblood crackpot for the rest of his life? Harry didn't think so.

There was also what to do about Ginny.

He couldn't help feeling slightly guilty about the way he and his two best friends had treated her, Neville and all the others that had spent the last year trapped in the school. He had felt even more guilty after the final battle when, confronted with the death of Fred, a small niggling voice in the back of his head kept muttering that at least it wasn't Ginny's funeral he as attending, at least it wasn't her he was bidding a final farewell to. He felt sure of one thing, however. Spending one year away from her, forced to resort to clutching at the Marauder's Map for comfort, tracing her name written into the parchment with his thumb, was more agonising than he could ever had imagined. Harry had never really thought his relationship with Ginny was a summertime fling, he knew that it had been coming on gradually for ages, piece by piece, until he was left totally smitten.

And now, it seemed, she hated him. She had barely spoken to him in the days after the final battle, and he hadn't wanted to press her, given the emotional trauma of the time. It had now been two months, though, and she hadn't got in touch. Did she blame him for Fred's death? Had she simply forgotten him over the last year - did she maybe like Neville or someone far more deserving than he? Harry shook his head; he had left it long enough. He would have to return to the Burrow some time soon.

He glanced up, noticing once again the letter he had just received lying on the table, demanding an answer. Perhaps, being a teacher for a year wasn't as mad as it sounded. He could sort out what he wanted to do with his life, both professionally and personally. It would give him a chance to rest, and still do his part for the wizarding community. It would also allow him to spend time at the only place he really considered home. Sure, he did own Grimmauld Place, but he had already decided this was temporary. The house would be sold, and he would move somewhere new. Perhaps to somewhere near Godric's Hollow, or Hogsmeade, or Ottery-St-Catchpole. He hadn't had time to think about it, so far.

"Liar," said the voice in his head, "You've been waiting to ask Ginny." Well, that was true, he thought. But would she care, at all? He knew Ginny wasn't planning on returning to Hogwarts, Hermione had relayed this in her last letter. Her tone had suggested that there was something he was supposed to take from this news, but it simply left Harry feeling hollow. Perhaps, if he spent a year at the school, it would give his ex-girlfriend some time to think things over. He would wait, for the time being.

Reaching his decision, he returned to his meal, planning his reply to McGonagall. He just hoped that this was the right thing to do.

* * *

**Please Review! All comments are welcome, although obviously if they're constructive then so much the better.**

**A/N: Well, first of all, I'm back to writing. I have had versions of both my other stories in the pipeline, as it were, for (literally) years now, just never having the drive to crack on with them. Hopefully I will do better with this, as I have learnt a bit more about the whole process: this should be better planned etc.**

**Things have changed, I've moved on from school and made it to university. Prizes if you can guess what I'm reading! Apologies for spelling errors, particularly those book related: I am without my copies of any of the books, as these are all at home, although this won't be a problem in a couple of weeks. I will hopefully be in need of a beta of some sort, so if you're interested, just leave me a message in a review and I'll get back to you.**

**McGonagall's password, "Jock", is the name of my cat (named after Winston Churchill's cat) and, coincidentally, also refers to Scottish people which, given Minerva's tartan wearing habits and feline animagus, seemed appropriate.**


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